


Thorn, A Sylvari's Tale - Chapter 1

by Mozu



Category: Guild Wars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-08
Updated: 2012-11-08
Packaged: 2017-11-18 05:23:43
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/557342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mozu/pseuds/Mozu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A Guild Wars 2 novel in progress.</p><p>Apologies for the wonky formatting - you can read the whole thing, properly formatted, over at http://bearzusmash.wordpress.com/thorn/</p>
            </blockquote>





	Thorn, A Sylvari's Tale - Chapter 1

**THORN, A SYLVARI’S TALE – Chapter 1**

**S.E. OFSTEIN**

 

Even in the bright and early summer, Mozu dwelt in gloom. The ancient trees stretched greedily toward the sky, their uppermost branches intertwined into a single, seamless green roof of canopy far overhead. The air was heavy and still, and musty with the smell of decaying leaves that lay thickly upon the ground and seemed to muffle all sound. She even began to tread more lightly, as if to avoid disturbing the sanctity of a holy place.

What little food she’d purloined from a farmstead near the southerly edge of the forest hadn’t lasted long, and she had begun to subsist on a diet of berries, roots, and plants, only some of which were actually edible. To make matters worse, the burlap sack that she wore as a makeshift dress did little to keep her warm in the still-chilly nights. Combined with a lack of fresh water and sunlight, and no clear sense of where she was headed, she felt defeated, wilted, and very alone.

 _A better person would just admit she was lost._ She squinted up toward the sky and the unseen sun. _And admit that she was an idiot for ever leaving the Grove in the first place. WHO EVEN LETS A NEWBORN JUST WANDER OFF?_

She lashed out, kicking a rotten branch to send it spinning end over end, cursing her own foolishness. Suddenly, the wind picked up, blowing from the east, carrying the scents of woodsmoke and meat roasting over an open fire. Her stomach growled. Her mouth began to water. She heard faint voices in the distance.

Moving at a shuffling lope yet trying to stay as quiet as possible, she followed her nose and ears. The voices got louder. Rough voices. Male voices. She slowed her place and stooped to pick up a length of fallen branch, which she brandished in one hand like a club. Her pulse quickened as she stalked the men and their food like a hungry animal.

Dusk was approaching as she found their camp. Set in the only clearing she had seen in more than a week since she’d entered the hallowed woodlands was a collection of ugly, brutish humans and two thin, scraggly dolyaks laden with packs, weapons, and bedrolls. _And food,_ she prayed.

She cast her eyes upward, gazing upon the slate sky for the first time in what felt like years, and nearly burst into tears as wispy clouds raced by, glowing pink and orange in the setting sun. Crawling beneath a large shrub, she waited and watched, unsure of what to make of these men. They certainly didn’t seem the type she should announce herself to. Not yet, anyway. She flicked an overly inquisitive beetle away and settled in.

The ragtag group seemed to defer to a stocky, hirsute fellow with a bushy black beard and greasy hair running in ringlets to his shoulders. The other men were arrayed in a circle around a good-sized firepit, a motley assortment of hard faces—scars, pockmarks, broken noses, unshaven jowls, mouths full of broken and rotting teeth—and all going about the business of preparing their small camp. All except the bearded man with the greasy hair who sat by the firepit and tended to the skewered rabbits and fowl sizzling happily over the fire.

He stood with an expansive stretch and a yawn and walked a few yards from the fire, fishing a pipe and small pouch of tobacco from his patched and stained jerkin.

The smell of the pipe tobacco was new to her, yet strangely familiar and comforting. Mozu lay there, watching, fascinated as the bearded man puffed out an enormous smoke ring.

“Smells like rain t’night, lads. Best ter get some shelters set up,” he called over one shoulder.

“Yeh could fuckin’ help a bit, rather’n scratchin’ yer arse over thar,” barked a voice from one of the other men. She hadn’t seen the speaker—her eyes had been too busy watching the expanding and dissipating smoke ring.

“Ah’m doin’ the cookin’.”

There was a disgruntled, muttered reply, but she couldn’t make out the words. The bearded man walked back to the firepit to turn the spitted meat and poke at it with a finger. He sat and upended the pipe, knocking it twice against the log he rested upon and returned it to the inner pockets of his jerkin.

“’Nother few minutes an’ we can eat.”

“Thank the gods. Me own leg were startin’ ta look appatizin’,” scowled a heavy-shouldered man in a fur cloak. He bore a hideous scar across the side of his face, and was missing part of an ear.

The rest of the men rushed to set up a few lean-tos over their bedrolls and tie some oiled canvas across whatever parts of the encampment they could manage.

 _Rain? Rain sounds nice._ Her mouth watered again as she gazed longingly at a small bird carcass, fat sizzling, skin turning a crisp nut-brown. _Much nicer with a belly full of hot food and some shelter overhead, though. Wait, have I ever eaten hot food?_

She suspected that her first inclination—that of not revealing herself to these men—was the correct one. While she wasn’t sure who they were, she had the strong impression that they were up to No Good. From the Dream, she knew that men, especially human men, spoke like this to one another frequently, but there was a malevolent aura to these particular men that she couldn’t ignore.

They ate, they drank, cursed and laughed and argued, and she watched them from her hiding place. _At least this is educational. Colorful and educational._ Occasionally, she eyed the packs now stacked near the dolyaks at the far edge of the clearing, and tried to ignore the food that the men were now stuffing into their faces. Grease dripped unnoticed down the beard of the cook as he tore bits of rabbit from a spit and chewed with vigor in between swigs of wine from a skin at his side.

Ignoring her own empty stomach as best she could, Mozu slipped from beneath the bush shortly after the sun disappeared beneath the horizon. What little sky she could see from where she crouched had turned to deep shades of purple and blue. A cool wind blew from the west, and she could feel the rain upon it.

Slinking away, Mozu put a fair bit of distance between herself and the camp, and made a wide circuit of the clearing. In the waning light, she found a small stand of evergreen that had taken advantage of a break in the canopy above. Piling as many fallen dried needles as she could gather into a makeshift bed beneath the largest of the trees, she fell upon them and rested for a few moments before climbing wearily to her feet once more.

An owl hooted its displeasure from far above as she crept from tree to tree in what she hoped was the direction of the campsite. It wasn’t long before she spied the dancing flames through the twilight wood and the silhouettes of the men hunched around the fire.

_Careful now, this is no sleepy farmer. Why am I talking to myself? Who else am I going to talk to? The owl? Good point._

She shook her head at her own nonsense and hugged the ground as she slunk ever closer to the tantalizing fire and the warmth it promised. Her eyes, however, were fixed firmly on the stacked supplies, now covered with oiled canvas to ward off the coming rain. Nodding, quite pleased with herself, she retreated back to her own meager shelter.

As she crawled beneath the lowest boughs, she collapsed onto the makeshift bed face-down. It was a long moment before she worked up the energy and willpower to roll over and stare up into a webwork of branches and needles. The first drops of rain began to fall, startling her in the stillness, and soon became a steady patter overhead.

Mozu awoke with a start, cursing herself for a fool even as she blinked the sleep from her eyes. Surprised to find that she was still dry beneath the evergreen boughs and warmer than she’d been since she’d entered the forest days ago, she was tempted to lie back and give herself over to sleep once again.

_Food._

She slipped from her shelter and hunched her shoulders against the chill, thankful, at least, for how the rainfall covered the sound of her feet crunching across the forest floor.

The camp was still and quiet, outside of the rumbling snores coming from the various bedrolls and lean-tos. Rain hissed where it struck the glowing embers of the banked fire, and one of the dolyaks stamped a hoof with a guttural sound as she inched towards the men’s supplies. She froze, and the dolyak regarded her for a few moments before deciding that she was no threat. Mozu wriggled beneath the canvas.

Rummaging in the dark, she pawed through the bags and packs, and soon skulked away from the camp with a bundle of her own beneath her arm.

She laid out her spoils, once again safely ensconced beneath the evergreens. A skin of water, a dried sausage near as long as her forearm, a small package wrapped in butcher’s paper containing two cooked legs of fowl packed in their own fat, a bit of hard cheese she’d broken from a much larger piece, a roughspun tunic and pair of pants, a surprisingly neatly folded grey woolen cloak with a metal clasp, and a camp knife, simple and sharp, stained and pitted with age. She ran her thumb along the edge and hissed as it drew a thin, golden line.

Glad to be rid of the burlap sack, she pulled the clothes on, rolled up the sleeves and hems, and tied the drawstrings as tight as she could. She unfurled the cloak about her and set to the business of filling her stomach.

Dawn came with a slackening of the rain, although a hazy drizzle would persist throughout the day. Curled beneath her new cloak, snug and warm, and having slept better than she ever had, Mozu began to formulate her next move.

_If I’m careful with the food, it should last at least a few days, maybe longer. I could move on, hope to find the northern edge of the forest and into Kyrtia fairly quickly. Look for the nearest town or city . . ._

She sat up slowly, careful to keep the cloak wrapped about her. These men, though. Something bothered her about them. Many things, really. Their whole demeanor, for one, but the lack of any real armor or heavy weapons in among their supplies ruled out a mercenary company or the like, and they certainly didn’t appear to be a group of happy-go-lucky nobles or merchants out on a hunt.

So what did that leave? Refugees? Unlikely. They certainly didn’t seem to be fleeing from anything. Highwaymen? Thieves? Murderers? While she didn’t wish to judge anyone based on appearances, they certainly fit the archetype of the bandit all too well.

Her hand went involuntarily to the pilfered knife, and she rubbed at the smooth leather handle with one thumb.

 

Mozu had been shadowing the men for days now. Each evening she’d conceal herself near the camp to spy upon them, and each night she’d try her best to find decent shelter. Some nights were more successful than others.

The dolyaks and she had an unspoken agreement by this point. No one made a fuss when she came around pilfering, and they were awarded a snack from the bandits’ supplies.

Disagreements and grumbling between the men had gotten more frequent as the days passed, although they’d yet to come to blows. One evening, during a particularly heated row between a number of the men, she watched Dirtybeard sigh heavily as he crouched by the firepit, again tending to the catch of the day.

He stood and clapped his hands together loudly, once. Mozu flinched at the sudden noise, as did the men of the camp. They were silent, watching.

“A’right, ya filthy cunts,” he drawled. “Shut it.”               

The uncleanly lad she’d taken to calling Spottyface piped up from the comfort of his bedroll. “Oi said tha same ta yer mum a fortni’ back. Shame she di’int lissen—oi think oi got tha crotch rot naow.”

A few of the men chuckled; Dirtybeard simply scowled and continued.

“We’re a few days out from Harriston. Enjoy yer warm fire an’ food, an’ actin’ like a fuckin’ idjit while ya ken. In two days, any fucker so much as fuckin’ farts in his sleep when we camp, and I’ll cut yer fuckin’ balls off and choke ya with ‘em. No fuckin’ fires, no fuckin’ noise.”

“Is you plannin’ on tellin’ us what we’s doin’ out ‘ere?” another voice chimed in from across the fire, Brokennose this time.  “We been in these woods fer near a week now. I ain’t even ‘eard o’ ‘Arriston.”

Dirtybeard looked ‘round the camp at the men and scowled, “Barley.”

Silence. He held up his hands to cut off the inevitable outcry before it even began.

“Harriston’s known fer growin’ high-quality barley.”

Silence still.

“Fer to malt.” A bead of sweat ran from his forehead to take shelter in the curly forest on his jaw.

A few of the bandits stood slowly, hands moving towards the various weapons tucked in their belts or laying at their sides.

“Fer beer.” His own left hand groped for something on his belt that wasn’t there.

“You dragged us all the way out here for a drink, you sack a’ shit?” She couldn’t see the speaker. _I’ll call that one Shitsack._

Brokennose laughed and sat back down, tearing a leg off one of the hares. The tension broken somewhat, the rest of the bandits seated themselves as well.

Dirtybeard put his hands on his hips. “You stupid motherfuckers. That barley’s meant fer **Eldvin Monastery** , an’ Harriston ain’t guarded worth a shit. We go in all fuckin’ quiet-like, do a little killin’, do a little rapin’,” that got a few more chuckles, “then we take some o’ them farmer clothes, dress up all respectable-like, finish loadin’ that barley inta them wagons, an’ we go sell it.”

Shitsack spat, “This sounds like a pain in my ass for some fucking wheat.”

“Barley,” Dirtybeard corrected.

“What-the-fuck-ever.”

“Lissen, boys,” Dirtybeard half-pleaded, “them farmers ain’t got shit fer weapons, less trainin’, an’ even less courage. My apologies fer takin’ ya on this little nature walk,” he gestured grandly and forced a laugh, “but you’ll be glad ya did when yer balls-deep in some sweet farmer’s daughter,” more chuckles, “and we’re sellin’ that barley fer enough coin to drink ourselves stupid fer months, not ta mention anything else o’ value them farmers might have.”

“You sure you weren’t drunk when you came up with this brilliant scheme?” asked Shitsack.

“Naow . . . ’old on ‘ere,” piped Spottyface, “Farmer’s daughter, ya say?”

One of the other men tossed a stale biscuit at him. “That’s our Gregg, always lookin’ fer something ta stick his dick inta.”

“Just be glad it ain’t one’a us he’s got his eye on,” another jested. Laughter all around.

More witty banter followed, although Mozu didn’t hear a word. Lines stood out on her neck from clenching her jaw until it ached. The smells of the cooking meat, the dolyak shit, and the unwashed bandits were suddenly overpowering. She wanted to vomit. To run as far from the camp she could, and never look back. To take that knife on its frayed rope belt, and charge right into the camp and . . .

_Kill them._

She lay her head down upon the earth, and breathed in the rich scents of dirt and fungus and dried leaves.

_Kill them._

Her eyes closed. She crossed her arms and lay her head upon them.

_Kill them all._

 

The fire had burned down to smoldering coals when a shadow slithered into the camp, silent and directed. Mozu’s heart pounded in her ears, but she breathed slowly and focused on placing one foot after the other, as quiet as any creature that haunted these woods.

The camp knife came free of its sheath. Bandits snored and dreamed in blissful ignorance. How many times had she seen these same broken grins and heard the same coarse laughter in her own Dream? She had certainly seen the handiwork of men like these –villains who only respected money and violence - even if she’d never witnessed it for herself.

Mozu stopped and knelt at the head of a bedroll, suddenly lightheaded from the surge of adrenaline and murderous intent. Dirtybeard’s face twitched in his sleep as she loomed over him.

_Do it._

She took the knife in one hand, the other placed over the pommel. Better than half a foot of steel sharp enough to shave with hovered over Dirtybeard’s eye as she tried to control her ragged breathing.

_I…_

Suddenly he coughed and blinked. Dirtybeard’s eyes were sleepy and uncomprehending as they cast about in confusion until they found the blade. He opened his mouth to scream. Mozu put her entire body weight into the thrust, falling on top of him as she drove the knife through his eye, and his skull, to bury the point in the balled-up blanket beneath his head and the dirt beneath that. Dirtybeard’s entire body tensed beneath her for a moment, and then went slack with a slow, final exhalation.

Mozu looked up, teeth bared, expecting the entire camp to be leaping up, hands grasping for weapons. Mercifully, they slept as soundly as before, snoring and wheezing, drooling away in whatever dreams bandits dream. She looked back down at her handiwork and felt her bile start to rise.

She quickly grabbed Dirtybeard’s nearby pack and, leaving the knife where it now rested, was gone. Away from the camp, her pace increased. Slowly at first, and then she ran. Ran until her chest burned and her legs gave out. She emptied the meager contents of her stomach and bowels. She cried. She wanted to go home.

Even in the darkness, Mozu could make out the tracks of some huge predatory animal as she approached the towering tree with its tangle of gnarled roots. A cursory glance around found no signs of the beast itself, and she was relieved to see that what little food remained hidden beneath those roots remained unmolested. Wearily, she crawled within, and covered herself with the grey cloak.

 

Voices in the morning mist roused her from her uneasy slumber. Yelling and cursing, they carried on in the distance as she emerged from the base of the tree, stretching her cramping limbs. She looked down at her hands, sticky and black in the predawn gloom. Kneeling, she grabbed handfuls of dirt, twigs, and leaves, and scrubbed hard as she watered the roots with pale golden tears.

Dawn came soon after, bathing the world in pink and orange and yellow, slowly burning the mist away. She reached into the pack and withdrew a patched leather jerkin smelling strongly of pipe tobacco. Mozu dropped it as if she had discovered a poisonous snake.

Hesitantly, she put her hand into the pack again. Some hard cheese wrapped in waxed paper, two apples that had seen far better days, a half-full skin of wine, and a hatchet. The worn blade was covered with well-oiled leather.

Leather. She put the hatchet aside and gingerly lifted the jacket. Grimacing, she slid it on and buttoned it—a double row of tarnished silver buttons. It was far too large for her, but after rolling the sleeves up a bit, she could use her hands well enough. It stank of sweat and spices and fragrant smoke.

As Mozu began to pack the bag again, she could still hear the bandits arguing in the far distance, their voices indistinct, muffled and hollow. The hatchet fell from her fingers as she curled up and began to cry again.

She awoke again in the late afternoon, feeling as if she’d been wrung out to dry. She ate much of the remaining food and greedily swallowed a few mouthfuls of wine, which set her head to spinning.

Posing heroically, she cast the woolen cloak across her shoulders, clasping it just below her neck. Mozu laughed halfheartedly, thinking of how ridiculous she must look and how terrible she felt.

The woods seemed still and quiet once more. She cocked her head and listened for a time, then hefted the pack and strode back the way she’d come the night before.

_And now what?_

A cairn had been erected near where Dirtybeard died the night before. She avoided looking at it as she scoured the clearing searching for anything they may have left behind, as she did every morning. Little more than a few charred rabbit bones remained, and a gore-soaked blanket which lay half-incinerated and smoldering in the ashes of the firepit. She swallowed hard and began to follow their always-obvious trail, hatchet at hand, stomach churning.

_And now I make them afraid._

There was no mirth and no crude jokes that night. The bandits sat around the firepit in subdued, muffled conversation, or quietly caring inexpertly for the ragtag array of weapons they carried.

A dour man with a crooked, squashed nose spoke in a rumble. “Guards tonight. Figger out the order yerselves. I’ll take first watch wif Len. I ain’t gonna have one’a you fucks stick a knife in _me_.” The others nodded grudgingly.

_Well, that rules out a repeat of last night._

Mozu scuttled away from the camp and the dull glow of the fire. Settling against a small oak some distance away, she sank deeper into the cloak and stared blankly into the darkness. She hugged her knees to her chest and rested her chin upon a knee. The hatchet hung loosely in one hand.

 _Why am I even out here? How many times have I asked myself that same question? If I’m lucky, it’ll take another ten days or so to get to wherever the hell it is they’re going, and I can murder them one by one along the way **,**_ she mused as she lay her head upon crossed arms and closed her eyes. The words banished all thoughts of supper.

_I’ll be a hero. Yay._

When Mozu opened her eyes again, the fire from the camp had burned itself out. The night was black as pitch, and she was glad for the rough bark of the tree at her back. Slowly her eyes adjusted, and the trees around her came into view, faint grey pillars in the gloom. She stifled a yawn as she rubbed a hand across her face.

“Oi, Rolly, you there?” came a whispered shout from some distance away. Her hand groped in the darkness for the hatchet.

Mozu jumped when the reply came from not twenty yards away.

“Shaddap! Ah’m takin’ a shit. Them fuckin’ squirrels di’in’t sit right,” he called back.

“Hurry tha hell up. I can’t see a damn thing out there.”

She took a long, deep breath as she stood, clutching the hatchet to her chest. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, she stalked toward the nearby voice—the cursing, grunting, and less pleasant noises leading her right to their source.

A ragged fellow squatted up against a tree, red-faced and sweating. Nearby lay a stout boar-spear, forgotten in his distress. His head shot up as Mozu came into view, and he let out a hoarse shout. Then she was upon him.

The bandit raised his hands to ward off the blow and lost three fingers. He slumped to one side, pulling back his hand with a whimper as he looked around desperately for the spear. She put a foot upon the haft, and his eyes found hers.

“Please,” he blubbered. “Please!”

The second blow caught him in the forehead with a wet crack. His heels pounded out a broken rhythm on the dirt and leaves.

Mozu looked at the shit- and blood-stained corpse in horror, still moving of its own accord somehow.

_Stop moving._

She took a knee and brought the hatchet up above her head again. She brought it down in a vicious arc, taking the still-twitching corpse behind the ear.

_Stop. Please stop._

She sobbed and brought the hatchet up again, and down again.

_STOP. PLEASE. JUST STOP._

She hacked and hacked until there was only a ruined mass of flesh, bone, and grey matter. Hacked until she was panting and could barely raise her arms. Her shoulders slumped.

The buzzing in her ears stopped, and, lightheaded, she heard the sounds of men tromping through the woods, calling out the dead man’s name, searching for him in the darkness. They were getting closer.

She picked up the spear and ran, leaving the hatchet buried in what was left of Rolly.

 

Mozu spent the next two days avoiding the bandits altogether, yet continuing to follow their trail. She’d lost both her way and her pack, along with the remainder of the food within, in the night. The spear allowed her to skewer a few unwary and overly trusting squirrels, although they were eaten raw, for while she knew that one could make a fire by rubbing two sticks together, there was obviously some trick to it that she was ignorant of.

The nights were cold and lonely, and she found herself sleepless, left with the memories of the two murders she had committed. The look of abject terror on those men’s faces when they had realized that their lives were at an end haunted her.

_This was what I wanted, right? To slay the bad guys and save the good guys? “Do evil in my own name” or something stupid like that? There’re no heroics here, no happy faces and glad smiles—a jolly welcome from the townsfolk saved from the evil men . . . just a stupid girl, cold and alone. And now a killer. Two men left cold and dead to return to the earth in the middle of . . . wherever here even is._

The days were equally long and even more exhausting. Miles of walking through unchanging landscape, little sustenance, and still only her thoughts to keep her company—and they were of little comfort.

_It wasn’t hard, though—to take those lives. It just required the will to do the deed. Isn’t it better that they’re dead? It’s two less men who will ever hurt anyone. But by hurting them, even as rotten to the core as they might be . . . isn’t that just as bad? What if I become like them? It might be one thing to joke and say, “I’d kill for a warm fire and some hot food,” but would I? Isn’t that what they’re doing?_

Even in her near-daze, she managed to avoid a pair of bandits who had hung back quite some distance from the main group, lying in wait in a large hollow beneath the roots of a fallen tree. She’d chanced to spy movement in their direction as she stopped for a rest, and quickly skirted them to keep moving.

_By the time they decide to move on and link back up with their fellows, I will be far ahead of them and in no danger. Or . . . should I turn back and murder these two as well? One against two seems like poor odds, especially in my present state, not to mention that they’re probably itching for a fight. And not to mention as well that I have no idea how to fight in the first place. Not like they do, I’m sure. What in the hell was I thinking? And now I’m starting to talk like them. And talk to myself. Again._

_I think I might be losing my mind. I wonder if you_ can _know if you’re losing your mind, or if it just happens, and then you think you’re a squirrel, or a tree. I came from a tree, so maybe I’m halfway there already. Maybe I_ am _a tree, and I just got tired of sitting in one place for eons, so I’m pretending to be a stupid, stupid girl._

She stumbled along, trying to remain alert. Unseeing eyes scanned the forest ahead for signs of danger, while roots in her path tripped her up more often than not. Able to do little more than put one unsteady foot in front of the other, this seemed to her more like a waking nightmare than the dream of the righteous warrior.

 

Finally the forest began to thin, and beyond, a vast grassland, rich and green. The sun blazed down upon the land from a clear blue sky, and Mozu found herself squinting and shading her eyes, yet it left her feeling strangely refreshed.

She crouched among the scrub at the edge of the forest above the farmland. Below, plowed fields now lay bare while great bales of dried grasses were being packed onto carts. Humanfolk, tiny from here, scurried to and fro from the equally tiny carts to tiny houses and other outlying buildings. A tall windmill with arms like a ship’s sails groaned in the summer winds.

Nine or ten bandits remained, likewise hiding in the scrub some fifty yards or more from her position. The farmers below were completely clueless to the danger that lurked just a short distance from their community. Meanwhile, the bandits were probably still quite angry about the unexplained brutal deaths of two of their companions, and those deaths had, no doubt, caused some friction among them in the days since. Indecision paralyzed her.

_This is going to be a massacre, and I have no idea how to stop it._

She gripped the haft of the spear in both hands so hard that it creaked in protest.

_If I call out, I’m dead, but maybe the humans will have enough time to—_

The first bandit slipped from the brush to creep down the slope toward the town. He gestured at some particularly large bushes and boulders, and a moment later, another followed. She inhaled deeply, and was about to stand and scream to the farmers with all of her might, when an enormous hand clamped itself across her mouth and most of her face, and another took the spear from her as easily as if she were an invalid.

Mozu let out a muffled shriek and thrashed madly to no avail. The arms that held her were like hairy tree trunks. She slumped in despair, awaiting her fate and hoping it would be a quick one. A gentle breath tickled her ear, “Quiet now, lass. We ain’t here fer you.”           

_We?_

She felt hot breath on the other side of her face and neck. Her eyes were greeted by the looming muzzle of a maned black cat larger than she was. Impassive green eyes seemed to take measure of this strange, blue plant-girl before it. She took one look into those eyes, and at that maw full of fangs and its lolling red tongue, and let out an even louder shriek.

The lion blinked once, taken aback, and turned its attention to the ant-line of bandits slowly making their way down towards the village.

“Girl!” the voice in her ear hissed. “Don’t make me have ta knock ya out. We’re here fer them.”

The impossibly strong grip loosed, and the hands retreated. She spun around, and her jaw dropped. He looked human enough, but near twice as big. Shaggy black hair tied loosely in a tail and a braided beard like iron wire framed a weathered yet strangely kindly looking face. The corners of his eyes creased as he smirked at her and held out his palms.

“Sorry, lass,” the norn whispered. “We didn’t mean ta scare ya, but I kin only assume yer responsible for puttin’ two’a them fellers in the ground, aye?”

It took Mozu a moment to comprehend his words as her eyes darted back and forth between the giant and the cat. She nodded.

He held his chin as he looked her over once more, then boxed her gently on the side of the head. “Tha hell are ya doin’ out here? No gear, no food, no clothes . . . some fuckin’ spear ya took off’a one’a them dead fellers an’ this tent yer wearin’ . . . “

He smirked again, an arm across one knee as he knelt beside her. Dressed in well-oiled leathers with a sword on one hip and a long dagger on the other, he clutched a bow that looked little larger than a toy in his huge hands.

Mozu shrank from him, but he moved to place a hand gently upon her shoulder. The huntsman opened his mouth, closed it again, and grimaced.

“No harm meant, lass,” he patted her. “Look, we been . . .” his gaze was drawn away from her face. “Ah, shite, no time fer explanations now.”

Sliding an arrow from the quiver slung across his back, he knocked it and stood, drawing the bowstring smoothly. Mozu could scarcely believe her eyes as he stretched to his full height. _Is this a joke?_

The huntsman let out a slow breath, and the arrow sped down towards the bandits with a soft twang. It struck the lead bandit between the shoulder blades, and he dropped like a stone to disappear in the tall grasses. His companions all froze and gazed back toward the ridgeline in fear and confusion.

“Hah.” He held the bow of polished horn and yew out to her and shrugged the quiver from his shoulder. Mozu grasped the weapon hesitantly. “Take my shortbow. Ya know how ta use one’a these?”

“I . . . I know the basic mechanics of—”

“Aye, good enough, even if ya just keep their heads down. From his distance, aim about two feet above their heads, should plug ‘em right about center mass. Pard’n me a sec.”

He cupped both hands about his mouth, ignoring an arrow that whizzed by his head, and roared, “OI! HARRISTEN! YA GOT A RIGHT BUNCH’A FUCKERS COMIN’ RIGHT UP YER ARSE! DUN BE SHOOTIN’ AT THA BIG MAN OR THA BIG CAT!”

Down below, the farmers froze for a moment, comprehension registering on their faces, visible even from this distance, and then chaos ensued. Men and women ran for weapons, or grabbed children and fled to shelter. The leatherclad giant glanced at Mozu for a second and raised his hands to his mouth again as another arrow missed its mark, “OR THA LITTLE BLUE LASS!”

 He grinned at her again then turned to scowl at the lion, who was practically dancing on all four paws in anticipation. The lion froze and looked the huntsman in the face. The norn laughed, hands resting upon his hips.

“Go get ‘em, boy.”

The great cat was a blur as it crashed through the shrubs and bounded down the slope. The bandits panicked, now caught between two hostile forces, and with a terrifying roar, six hundred pounds of black fur, muscle, yellow fangs, and claws that could easily open a man from throat to navel with one swipe hit them in the rear. The huntsman guffawed outrageously as he followed the cat down the hillside, sword and dagger flashing in his hands.

 _What . . . the hell just happened?_ Mozu stood slowly, mouth agape, and peeked through the bushes.

Below, the lion had left one man savaged and, discarding the arm it had torn off, closed in on another bandit who was cowering behind a large boulder. Charging around one side, the cat drove the fleeing bandit right into the path of the giant, who barely paused in his own charge down the hill as he drove a dagger up under the bandit’s ribcage and carried him along for a few yards. The lion and the huntsman ran alongside one another for a brief moment, then split up again to bear down on separate targets.

The half-dozen bandits closer to the village ran for the town’s southern gate, although from here, Mozu couldn’t tell whether they were attacking or fleeing. The farmers met them with pitchforks, spears, and broadaxes, and although the farmers were numerous, the bandits had obviously fought men before and may have had other reasons for wanting to be off the hill as quickly as possible.

Taking a deep breath, Mozu selected one of the long arrows from the quiver the norn had left behind. She knocked the arrow to the string and drew with all of her might. Her left arm shook with the effort of holding the draw as she sighted in on the young bandit who hunched behind a low, flat rock with a bow of his own. _Spottyface. No sweet farmer’s daughter for you today. Just lil’ ol’ me._

Mozu released and the string slapped her painfully. The arrow flew true at first, or so it seemed to her, but missed by more than a foot. Spottyface spun and scanned the ridgeline, however, which gave the farmers a brief respite and allowed them to focus on the melee at hand.

Gritting her teeth and cursing, Mozu upended the quiver and knelt, picking up the arrows one by one and quickly driving them point-first into the ground. She stood again, already drawing, her arms aching from the effort. As she was sighting down the shaft, an incoming arrow grazed the leaves upon her head. Shocked by the close call, she involuntarily let loose the arrow. Down below, the archer drew another arrow, knocked it, and ran.

She missed thesprinting boy by a yard or more. As he noted the arrow’s trajectory, Spottyface dropped to one knee and fired. Mozu yelped and hit the ground just as the arrow passed right through the space that she’d occupied a split second before.

Below, the bandits at the town gate were being kept more or less at bay by the reach of the defender’s weapons, and they began to yell for the archer to support them again. Spottyface turned to launch a couple of poorly aimed arrows in the general direction of the melee, an equal threat to both sides.

Farther up the slope, the charge of the huntsman and the lion had bogged down against a pair of tough foes. _Former mercenaries_ , the norn guessed, turning the bandit’s blade aside again. As he slowly gave ground, he peeked over his opponent’s shoulder to watch the other bandit keep the enraged cat at bay with sword and shield. _Not bad._

He whistled three short, sharp blasts and picked up the pace of his attack on the bandit with the greatsword. The lion heard the signal and immediately turned tail, thundering toward the exposed back of the giant’s foe. The cat’s flank was laid open as it turned from the bandit, but the immense cat hardly seemed to notice.

The bandit breathed hard, lowering his weapon and shield and thankful for the momentary relief. He felt a brief pang pity for his soon-to-be-fallen companion as the norn baited the greatsword-wielding bandit into a wild swing that the ranger leapt away from, leaving the man unbalanced and stumbling. With a terrifying roar, the black lion leapt and struck the bandit from behind, driving him into the ground as if he’d been hit by a cannon ball.

_THE LOOK ON THAT FELLER’S FACE! PRICELESS! OH, MERCY!_

The other bandit set his shield and prepared to meet the charge of the norn, who was running at him, and . . . laughing? He emptied his bowels at the sight. The giant roared near as well as his lion, and as he was nearly upon the bandit, suddenly disappeared.

“Wh—?”

Spinning low, the huntsman flanked the bandit in an instant and drew his sword across the man’s hamstring. As the bandit dropped to one knee, the ranger drove his dagger down into the hollow of the man’s collarbone.

Giant and lion came together again and advanced on another bandit who broke and ran, pleading for mercy and for his mother. They gave swift chase.

Mozu popped back up just as Spottyface had begun to move again, his own bow at the ready. Releasing the half-drawn bowstring, she sent an arrow wobbling down toward him even as she reached for the second arrow clutched in her teeth. Spottyface stopped in his tracks, bringing his weapon to bear as Mozu loosed the shaft. The boy’s eyes widened in shock.

Spottyface’s own arrow took her in the thigh, and she fell with a scream. She looked in horror at the clothyard shaft protruding from her leg, and the golden blood welling up about it.

_No, no, no, no, no._

She reached down to take the shaft of the arrow in one slim hand. Tears ran down her face, and with a terrified cry, she yanked the arrow free with a sharp jerk. Mozu whimpered and rolled in the dirt, clutching her wound, mouth opened in a silent scream.

_UP. UP. GET UP, GIRL._

Her hand found the bow again, and she pulled another arrow from the earth as she clawed and scrabbled to a new position a few yards away. Taking a deep breath, Mozu stood with a stagger and another scream of pain and anger as she drew the bow again, searching out her target.

Where Spottyface’s arrow had flown true, so had hers. He slumped against a rock, eyes wide and unseeing, a feathered shaft protruding from his sternum. Her own eyes were wide as well, and wild. She kept searching.

Four bandits remained, desperately trying to force their way through the gate. One spun to face the ranger and his pet, and brandished his paired axes with a ragged war cry. An arrow suddenly sprouted from his neck, and the axes fell from numb fingers as he clawed at the wound.

The norn threw back his head with a great laugh that echoed throughout the battlefield, and he and the lion fell upon the remaining attackers. The last of the bandits were quickly slaughtered, caught between the farmers—now cheering and whooping in victory—and the fearsome giant and his companion.

Grinning again, he turned and waved broadly, gesturing for Mozu to join them as he followed the farmers through the gate and into the town. She gathered up all of the remaining arrows and placed them back in the quiver, slinging it across her back as she’d seen the huntsman wearing it. She looked the composite bow over. From the ground, it stood near to shoulder height.

_Shortbow. Right._

Limping carefully down the slope and using the spear for support, she felt strangely elated, if exhausted and in more pain than she’d ever experienced. Mozu stopped at the corpse of the young archer and stared into those dead eyes for a time, then raised her face to the sky and drank deep of the sun’s warmth as her tears ran unchecked.


End file.
